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In the not-so-old days I offered a seasonal essay to this newspaper, many of which you all published. I was flattered; my family was bemused; friends patted me on the back. It was all very flattering. But times and geography and age and health modify everything. And my own enthusiasm for showing off waned. I grow old, I grow old, I wear my trousers rolled. Eliot said something like that, and I think I know what he meant. Your opinion on this and that isn't really needed anymore. Was it ever?
But ego and outrage have a way of contradicting the obvious signals to keep my opinions to myself. And events of the world challenge the conventional wisdom to keep one's mouth shut. The bad and the good are there in abundance. So I risk once more shooting my mouth off.
First, that we are still required to listen to the maunderings of Donald Trump, the leader of the frat house of cruelty and outrageous contradictions. Second, that I have friends who will march into hell with him. Third, the ongoing slaughter of the innocents that rages across this country. Indiscriminate killing of the young and old for simply being there when the bell for mayhem and bloodshed clangs. I could go on, of course, but here's the awful truth. My outrage devolves into the very insensitivity and cruelty it purports to correct. Bad begets bad, unfortunately.
But then my betters, young and old, teach by example and some semblance of the good finds a way to prevail. Bell ringers ring, gift givers give, prisoner exchanges take place when you least expect them to occur. A phone call asking for forgiveness. A letter saying it really wasn't your fault. An idea to do good presented and built upon. Oh, not every day, of course, but often as not when you least expect the good news to be announced.
So my message this season of giving is that goodwill prevail. It couldn't be otherwise.
Season's greeting from this old and not-quite-decrepit believer in the good. Still and always. Trousers rolled, cane brandished and ready to march.